The Masterpiece
by Lisa Smithers
Summary: John comes home to 221b to the smell of paint. The question is... What is Sherlock painting?
1. Chapter 1

John walked through the door to the flat to find it was abnormally quiet. No violin music, no clinking of test tubes, no gun shots.

John walked into the sitting room to see Sherlock with an old, ragged plaid shirt on.

His back was to the window, curtains closed.

The room was dim without the window's light.

He had some sort of easel looking thing set up in front of him.

"What are you doing?" John asked, surprised to see Sherlock so calm, but seemingly not bored. Sherlock looked up quickly, as if he was a child being caught stealing a biscuit from the jar.

"I'm... painting." Sherlock said, looking back down to his easel.

"Really?" John said, "Can I see? What are you painting?"

"It hasn't really taken shape yet, you can't tell-" Sherlock said. John could sense that Sherlock didn't want to show him.

John however, was quite stubborn when he wanted to be. Despite Sherlock's protests, John walked around behind him and looked at the painting.

John was astonished.

"You know what this is called, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Impressionism?" Sherlock said.

"No. It's called abstract art and it's the last type I'd ever thought you would paint." John said.

The background was a fiery mix of oranges, reds, and golds. Streaks of bright green, blue, red, white, black, and purple flowed throughout it.

"It's not abstract. It's impressionism." Sherlock said.

"Then what is it an impression of?" John asked. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but closed it, hesitating. He'd dug himself a hole. He wasn't getting out of this one.

"It's-" Sherlock hesitated once more,

"It's my..." Sherlock couldn't seem to find the word. Sherlock snapped his fingers.

"I'll tell you in a moment." Sherlock said.

He pulled out his cell phone and pressed number 5 then enter. The phone began ringing, and John wondered who he was calling.

"Mycroft, what do I paint?" Sherlock asked, "What's it called?"

'Mycroft? Sherlock has Mycroft's number on speed dial?' John thought, now quite confused.

"You do know what I'm talking about, right?" Sherlock said. A pause. "Yes, that... thing." Sherlock said, "What's it called?"

John couldn't make out what Mycroft was saying on the other end of the line.

"How can you not know!?" Sherlock said, "Of course there's got to be a name for it! They came up with platypus, didn't they?"

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A/N: I wonder what Sherlock's painting... Hmm... And why didn't he want John to see it? Review please!


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hung up on Mycroft angrily.

"I have been recently informed that what I pain does not have a name." Sherlock said. "I can guarantee however, that it is in fact impressionism, and not abstract art."

"There's nothing wrong with painting abstract art Sherlock, it's just unusual." John said, "I've seen some very beautiful pieces, as well as... well... some not so beautiful ones. This though, this is really good Sherlock. I like it a lot."

"You do?" Sherlock said, tilting his head. John nodded.

"Thank you..." Sherlock said hesitantly.

"How long have you been painting?" John asked. "I haven't seen you paint before."

"I used to paint a lot when I was young. I do it once every couple months now..." Sherlock said. "Usually when you're gone."

"Hmm..." John said. "Why?" Sherlock shrugged.

"I don't know." He said. "Mycroft always got annoyed when I did it when I was younger, I figured you would too."

"Mycroft's always annoyed." John sighed, "I think it's neat."

"You do?" Sherlock said, looking genuinely curious.

"Of course, Sherlock." John said. "Why do you act so surprised?"

"Mum never liked my paintings." Sherlock said, as he looked at his own painting once again. "She could never figure out what they were of, and I never could find the words to tell her. She always said that paintings had to be of something that had a name to be good."

"Could it be Sherlock," John suggested, "That what you're painting, that it's your mind? Your mind and your thoughts, I mean. That's what it reminds me of. Or at least how I've always imagined it as."

"You imagine my mind?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Well I couldn't exactly not want to know what makes you brilliant." John said, "And to figure things out so much more quickly than anyone else, it must be pretty full..."

"The black background would be outside of your mind," John said, "and the colors inside would be your thoughts, because look like they're moving, like they're dashing all over the place, always changing, reforming. It's an everchanging Masterpiece."

"...You know John..." Sherlock said, as he looked at his painting once again.

"I think that's exactly what it is."

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 **The End**

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A/N: Hope you like it, this is my first finished story ever, so I'm very proud of myself. Please review! I'd love to know what you think of it!


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